


These Beautiful Love Games

by otppurefuckingmagic



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Poetry, There's just a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-09-27 11:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10017329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otppurefuckingmagic/pseuds/otppurefuckingmagic
Summary: The thing is, Alec doesn’t know how to ask to be touched.(or Alec finds a copy of Hafiz poems in Magnus’ loft, and it changes everything.)





	1. The Happy Virus

**Author's Note:**

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> The Happy Virus is Part 1 of the 13 part series These Beautiful Love Games. 15 years in Magnus’ and Alec’s lives told through the poetry of Hafiz.
> 
> cover art by the incomparable @darquebane

The last few weeks have been a lot of change in a short amount of time, but that Alec is in Magnus’ loft—with a blanket draped over his legs, a book in his lap, and a conjured glass of craft beer next to him—has swiftly become more normal than not.

Magnus flits around the loft, levitating jars and potions—returning them to their proper spots from the concoction he just finished creating for a client.

Alec shivers at the slip of sun-kissed skin at Magnus’ wrists and forearms, revealed when Magnus rolls his cuffs up to place a metal box on the top shelf in lieu of snapping it magically into place. His skin prickles when Magnus sweeps past him, leaving a wake of sweet herbs and unassailable authority trailing behind him. Alec aches to have all that power focused solely on him.

Instead of reaching out, though, he curls one hand around the edges of the book and sifts his fingertips over the yellowed pages. He brings the glass of beer to his lips with the other. He swallows both the bitter hops and the request building in his chest that he absolutely can’t vocalize.

The thing is, Alec doesn’t know how to ask to be touched.

He sets his beer aside and buries his nose back in the book instead of stammering to find the right words. This tome—a collection of poems by an ancient writer Hafiz—is a recent find in Magnus’ vast library. Alec has always had a fascination with poetry. With the gift to mold words into meaning with sweeping, clear certainty. Something his own lips will never be able to do. Until Magnus, he’s had to satisfy himself with brief trips to mundane bookshops. Where he can sit in a dusty corner, glamoured away from prying eyes, and spend even a few minutes indulging in reading for fun.

But now, his explorations of the world follow paths laid out on a vastly different map.

He spends hours here, and the books are only a part of the reason. Okay, not really a _reason_ at all, but definitely a bonus. Especially on nights like tonight when he arrives to a Magnus who is entrenched in the mysterious daily duties as the High Warlock of Brooklyn. But there’s only so much…visual appreciation he can accomplish without tumbling over the line of leering—a fact Izzy likes to remind him of when he gets lost in the movement of Magnus’ hands, or lips, or eyes, or…fuck, well, _anything_. So he flips the pages to a random place and begins to read again.

_I caught the happy virus last night_

_When I was out singing beneath the stars._

_It is remarkably contagious -_

_So kiss me._

Alec presses his finger into the words, as if he can soak their meaning into his skin with enough pressure. Allow this uncomplicated view of intimacy to run through his blood and forcibly evict the tangle of desire taken residence in his head after too many years of restraint and denial.

“I could use some fresh air. Join me for a drink?”

Magnus’ sudden pronouncement startles Alec into slamming the book shut, as if he’s been caught with his thoughts lingering above his head like a cartoon bubble in one of Max’s comic books.

The doors to the balcony sweep open with an effortless flick of Magnus’ wrist, and Magnus’ chest expands on a breath that seems to be clearing him out just as much as the wind flowing over the river pushes away the acrid hint of hellfire from the loft.

Alec folds the blanket Magnus placed over him, and rests the book on top. By a magic Alec is growing accustomed to, a glass appears in the hand not occupied with his beer—filled to the brim with a shimmering purple liquid. Alec takes a tentative sip of Magnus’ drink and splutters against the overwhelming burn of top-shelf vodka.

When he steps into the nighttime, Magnus is manifesting targeted rainstorms that drench the balcony’s greenery in summer rain, humming some melody that Simon or Clary would identify in seconds. One that Alec has no hope of ever guessing. But that doesn’t keep him from smiling.

All he can think about as he gazes at Magnus is that _this is it_. He’s caught the happy virus, and it indeed is remarkably, beautifully contagious.

“Kiss me?” he asks before he can overthink it.

The words taste just as sweet as the pastries he and Jace stole the first time Jace cajoled him into forgetting the rules and having a bit of fun.

The glamour slips from Magnus’ eyes. The golden vastness of a harvest moon illuminates the lines of Magnus’ mouth as he smiles.

Alec’s breath catches in his chest.

Magnus’ tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “You don’t have to ask me twice, Alexander. Frankly, you don’t have to ask me at all. Please feel free to indulge yourself whenever the moment feels right.”

Alec squelches the impulse to toss the drinks over the edge of the balcony—so his hands will be on Magnus that much faster—and places both glasses on a table that appears at his side in a pulse of blue light.

Even with his hands emptied, Alec grips the railing instead of Magnus’ hips, his arms bracketing Magnus in, and leans down.

The shape of Magnus’ mouth is familiar, as is the softness of his lips. There’s no urgency—not like their first kiss, there will never be another quite like _that_ one—and Magnus is drawing back before Alec even has a chance to lose his breath.

“While your lips are an otherworldly delight, Alexander, I get the feeling your hands would be even more so.” The smirk that stretches across Magnus’ face leaves Alec stomach swooping as if he’s in freefall. “If you want to, of course.”

“I, uh….”

The heat of his cheeks is an inferno, his desire even more consuming. He lifts the edges of Magnus’ shirt, and seeks out skin. An insistent press of palm to back that coaxes Magnus’ body into his.

This time, Alec decides he may never need to breathe again.

Maybe this Hafiz guy has it right. He _definitely_ knows more than Alec does.

It’s only one book in a collection that spills from room to room, and Magnus doesn’t even hesitate when Alec asks to take it home.

Those brittle, time-worn pages change everything....


	2. If You Don't Stop That

Alec glances at Magnus warily. There’s a crease in Magnus’ forehead that only appears when he’s conflicted about speaking aloud, and he continues to walk past Alec’s office door, gaze steadfastly fixated on the book in his hands as he paces the Institute’s hallway. Yet each time he walks by, his body subtly turns toward Alec as if gravity has realigned, his orbital track shifting him closer and closer to Alec’s door.

“What is it, Magnus?” Alec calls out, setting down his pen.

Magnus stops in his tracks, slips his book shut, and finally makes his way past the doorframe. “I never said this to you, but I’m sorry I was so…forward when I first met you. I had no idea you were in the closet.”

Alec stares at Magnus. _In the closet_ is a phrase he doesn’t know. Only one of dozens, if not hundreds, of phrases he’s heard come out of Simon and Clary’s mouth that he’s had to try to piece together based on context and their facial expressions.

This one, however, draws a very vivid picture for him and he can glean the meaning of what Magnus is telling him almost immediately.

“I’ve never heard that term before, but I think I know—”

“Is it a term?” Magnus cuts in, his brow furrowing. “I think it may be an idiom, or maybe a metaphor? I’ve never been clear on the meanings of words that describe words.”

“Some days it’s like we don’t speak the same language.”

“Am I being too cryptic?” Magnus teases, alighting on the edge of Alec’s desk.

Alec smirks and leans back in his chair.

“‘In the closet’ as in—not just not being out,” Magnus continues, “but also actively cloaking one’s queerness. It can be a personal choice, situational, or a mix of both.”

“I figured. And you don’t have to apologize, Magnus. I wasn’t so much in the closet as I was”—he waves his hand in the air trying to come up with the right word—“unaware, I guess, that there even was a closet.”

“So what do you know about queer history?”

Alec shakes his head. “Nothing. The only mentions of anyone being gay in Nephilim texts talk about the inherent wrongness of people who chose this.”

Magnus winces.

This has happened a few times now. Alec says something that seems harmless to him, but it’s clear Magnus is bothered by something that he’s said.

“That look,” Alec says, leaning forward. “I don’t understand what that looks means.”

Magnus’ gaze is intent. “You didn’t choose this. It’s who you are.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” Alec reassures him. “I do.”

“Good. Because I happen to think you were perfectly formed.” Magnus leans over the desk, tangles his fingers in Alec’s shirt and coaxes him forward for a kiss. “How much more work do you have?”

Alec can’t hold back his smile. “I can be done now.”

“Excellent. I’m taking you dancing.”

 

****

 

Magnus has always talked about taking him dancing—he knows Magnus loves the entire club scene—so it’s with some trepidation that Alec steps past the velvet rope at a warehouse in Brooklyn, and follows Magnus inside, their hands clasped together.

Alec’s eyes widen at the gyrating, half-naked spectacle in front of him. “There are so many people.”

“Drinks?” Magnus says, his lips gleaming in the pulsating lights.

Alec smiles and leans in for a kiss. “Definitely drinks.”

The crowd parts for them as they head for the bar, every eye raking over Magnus as he confidently leads Alec to their destination. Alec isn’t a jealous or territorial person, but there’s definitely a primal piece of him singing out that it’s _his_ hand in Magnus’, not anyone else’s.

Magnus leans into the bar, immediately drawing the bartender’s attention. “Drinks for me and my….” Magnus smirks as he peeks over his shoulder at Alec, a lascivious leer in his gaze. “My _friend_.”

Alec rolls his eyes. His mother still insists on calling Magnus his _friend_ , not boyfriend, when it’s intensely clear that Alec has never spent any length of time attached to any of his friends’ lips like he has Magnus’. Jace—ever the sarcastic shit—likes to point out that Alec doesn’t have any friends at all…. Which is probably closer to the truth.

“Two shots of tequila,” Alec says to the bartender. “The best you have. For my _boyfriend_.”

Magnus beams, black nail polish tipped fingers curling into Alec’s shirt and dragging him in. When Magnus leans into him, Alec is overcome with the scent of Magnus’ skin and the graceful shift of Magnus’ muscles under his clothes.

Two months ago, he never would’ve dreamed of being in a club surrounded by so many not-straight people and saying the word boyfriend out loud, let alone having a boyfriend to order a tequila shot for. Or, he thinks with an ecstatic flip of his stomach, feeling completely free to lean down and possessively kiss the gloss off Magnus’ lips.

“This club was the perfect choice,” Alec tells him.

Magnus tips his head as if that conclusion was obvious. “I’ve lived through a great number of revolutions—but our current queer revolution may have the most meaning to me personally. Now is a wonderful time to be alive, Alexander. I want to show it all to you.”

Magnus downs his shot and coaxes Alec to do the same, then clasps his hand, leading him out to the dance floor.

Alec is quite certain he will go wherever Magnus leads.

He loses himself in the beat of the music, in the heat of Magnus’ body against his. Each song suspiciously sounds exactly like the last one, yet Magnus seems to know every word, every beat, his hands inching below Alec’s shirt to mold Alec into him until they’re moving as one.

One drink becomes two, then four. Alec’s joints wobble just like they do after a long training session, yet without the twinges of discomfort and physical exhaustion. If his state of mind is a color, it’s yellow right now—bright and sunny and blindingly happy. _No_ , Alec thinks with an actual shake of his head. It’s gold—like the depths of Magnus’ eyes. Those beautiful, soulful, intoxicating-in-their-own-right eyes.

He means to say exactly that to Magnus, and he pulls Magnus into his chest needing him close to hear this, but the words that come out are, “My mother can fuck off.”

Magnus tips his head. “I don’t disagree, darling. But I’m unsure why your mother is the topic of conversation when I have my hands on your ass.”

Alec can’t control the full belly laugh that rockets out of him—joyful and loud, like a summer-time fireworks display.

How was it possible he’s only known this man for a month?

“You are…everything,” Alec confesses. It’s nowhere near the truth, though, because _everything_ implies there is a limit to what he feels for Magnus, and Alec knows he’s merely scratched the surface of who Magnus will become to him. He grips Magnus’ hips and draws him closer. “Now keep your hands on my ass.”

Magnus laughs and the sound rolls through him even louder than the music, more resonant than the thumping bass, and he has no idea how much time has passed when Magnus drags him out of the club into the frosty night, but he hasn’t been this carefree in years. Maybe ever.

He doesn’t realize he’s humming at all until Magnus joins in, supplying words and a slightly off-beat percussive accompaniment with his boot heel.

His brain trips over time, skips ahead, and lulls quietly as they walk, full awareness not slipping in until he strips off everything and falls into bed with Magnus at his side.

Magnus rests his head on Alec’s chest and his breathing evens out within seconds, but Alec can’t sleep. He picks up his phone and dismisses all the notifications from his siblings or anyone related to work without looking at them, and opens an app to read himself to sleep. His thumb hovers over a book Catarina recommended to him when he spots the Hafiz poetry book in his library, now loaded onto his phone so he can carry it everywhere with him.

He know exactly what he’s searching for at this point, and he flips through the pages until he lands on his query.

 

_I used to live in_

_A cramped house with confusion_

_And pain._

_But then I met the Friend_

_And started getting drunk_

_And singing all_

_Night._

_Confusion and Pain_

_Started acting nasty,_

_Making threats,_

_With talk like this,_

_“If you don't stop ‘that’ -_

_All that fun -_

_We're_

_Leaving.”_

He leans down and places a kiss on Magnus’ head, whispering, “Thank you for not giving up on me, Magnus.”

As sure as he was that Magnus was asleep, he feels Magnus smile against his skin. “I never will, Alexander.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @otppurefuckingmagic or twitter @authorsamcauley ♡ xx


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